


L'appel Du Vide

by Wilde_Abandon, wilde_child



Series: L'appel Du Vide [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comedy, Dark Magic, Death, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Horror, Murder, Mystery, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 00:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19756453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilde_Abandon/pseuds/Wilde_Abandon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilde_child/pseuds/wilde_child
Summary: Madeline has worked alone for as long as she can remember. She keeps her friends distant and her secrets to herself but when a would-be typical case puts her and the Winchesters on a trail of monsters unlike anything they've ever seen, they'll have to rely on one another to make it out alive.  (This is a reboot of the original L'appel Du Vide, written by myself and Wilde_Abandon)





	1. Of Gods and Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> SERIES WARNINGS: Depictions of gruesome murder, highly detailed gore, nudity, occult references, angst, religious references, drinking, drug use, witchcraft, torture, abuse, filicide, death, brief mentions of incest, smut (eventually, maybe), shape-shifting, loss, grief, blood, nightmares, paranoia, mental illnesses & overall dark/horror based themes.

Somewhere in the heart of what many humans would have called ‘the middle of nowhere’; a heartbeat erratically disrupted the lazy croaking of toads and the cacophonous chirping of crickets as its warbling tune rang out like perverse thunder. It was too fast, uneven and pained as if whoever owned the organ was frantically fleeing from a monster that grew ever closer with each passing shadow. It wasn’t uncommon for drug-addled folk to be found in these parts, mumbling about laughing shadows while they scratched at seeping sores and charred veins from their repetitive use of man-made hallucinogens. Run. Faster. I’m going to get you. Go! Quickly now! The hissing laughter danced through the looming trees and dense foliage as whatever was causing such an inhuman sound coursed after its prey with a morbid amount of delight. 

She had such pretty blonde curls, her skin kissed by the sun and her choice of clothing a heavy tell that she wasn’t from around these parts. She ran through the woods as quickly as the expensive boots would allow without breaking an ankle, her chest burning as she tried to outrun the shadows themselves as they danced and whipped through trees that were barren of foliage in the late winter months. She heard the sinister laughter, it was real and she knew she wasn’t losing her mind. She heard it tell her to run faster as if prodding her toward her final destination. Faster. You’re almost there. Go on! A scream of fear that would have once echoed through the dense forest was now less than a hoarse whisper as the girl pushed herself to run even faster. It wasn’t until it was far too late that she spotted the gnarled branch, thick with age and sharpened by passing wildlife sharpening teeth and shedding antlers. Try as she might, the speed in which she ran only caused her to stumble as she tried to stop herself, falling forward and disturbing the peace of the night with a sickening gurgle as blood pooled from thick, artificial lips, her mouth a perfect ‘o’ and her baby blues wide as she gasped and gagged. 

“Like a fish out of water. Tch. You were much prettier than he made you out to be, but you know how scorned lovers can be. Selfish prick, you could have made so many men happy.” A smoky voice spoke to the girl as she struggled and fought her impending death. “You know what they say though, twenty bucks is twenty bucks, though in this case, it’s your soul for his. Humans will do some truly debase shit when their ticket comes time to punch. I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said you’d pay for breaking his heart. Looks like he’s one-upped you on that, now.” From the shadows that had once chased the girl through the forest strode a tall, sharply dressed male, pale as the moon that kissed the forest floor with eyes the color of burnt ocher. They glowed like the coals of a dying fire as he bent at the waist and met her gaze with his own. 

“Stop fighting love, hush.” A pale hand tipped with talon-like nails slid over the female’s cheek and as if being powered down, she stopped struggling, her head dropping forward to rest against the branch that had impaled her. Even Gregory wasn’t the type to watch the pretty ones suffer for too long. He had morals after all, where those morals were was a different question, but he was almost certain that he owned a set or three. Bringing his hand up, a curling swath of black smoke summoned a small scroll of parchment to his palm, a finger from his free hand swiping some of the quickly cooling blood from the woman’s mouth to ‘sign off’ on his latest job. The quirky kid who had so brazenly ordered his ex-girlfriend’s execution had only had one request. ‘Make it messy’ and so Gregory had done the best he could given the location he had been stuck in. There was no fire or brimstone in this girls’ future, but neither was she destined for the shining gates of heaven. “Atheists. They get the worst end of the stick.” Gregory spoke to himself as he slipped past his latest job and headed for a break in the woods. He was due to meet with the self-professed King of Hell and two humans that had turned the short, saucy Scotsman into a personalized demonic pet. Gregory found it amusing, much to the chagrin of Crowley. 

Humming under his breath as he walked, Gregory was very aware of the fact that he was being watched, a grin curling at the corner of his too-wide mouth and his arm out-stretching to act as a perch for a rather large Raven to land upon. “You know if they catch you doing this they’ll never trust you again, right?” He knew the bird wouldn’t answer, but he’d always found it amusing at just how neutral a witch could be when it came to monsters and men. 

Gravel crunched beneath her heavy black boots as Madeline walked along the dark country road, the only light provided by the swollen moon, heavy with the turn of the seasons. A slight breeze swept through the dark, teasing a few strands of her hair that had stubbornly refused to be bound by the thick elastic band currently holding the rest of her tresses. She often walked alone in the dark, the silence only punctuated by the chirping of crickets. She loved the sound, something you couldn’t hear in the city. Even at night, cars and crowds never ceased completely and it left her on edge. Out here she felt at ease. Suddenly, the sound of breaking twigs broke her reverie and she quieted, listening for any hint of what had disturbed the silence.

Straining, she heard the sound again - this time with the added rustle of leaves and the earnest sound of a struggle. Intrigued, Madeline slowed to a stop, glancing over her shoulder. The road stretching behind her was quiet, she could only just make out the dim glow of light coming from the sleepy little town some ten miles back. Inhabited mostly by farmers, it was the type of place where the lone supermarket was also home to the town post office.

A breeze playing along the ground, the disturbance sent little torrents of dust to scatter across the abandoned path. Following a particularly strong whirlwind, as it danced across her shoes, Madeline took note of a single black feather caught in a small thicket of wild brambleberry. Crossing the path and stepping down into the trampled grass of an embankment, the fragrance of pine needles and cedar assaulted her senses. Stooping to disentangle the feather from amongst the sharp thorns, she straightened, peering closely at the crumpled tip. Running nimble fingers over the vane, the silky texture was a true, inky black. Turning it in her hands, Madeline could just make out the indigo iridescence playing along the center. Glancing once more over her shoulder, the woman fished into the front pocket of the denim jeans clinging to her thighs. Procuring a small folded pocket knife, she raised the weapon to her mouth, her focus remaining on the feather while using her teeth to unfold the titanium blade from its hand-carved cedar handle.  
Dragging the sharp edge across the lifeline of her right hand, Madeline winced as it bit into her flesh; a pool of garnet immediately flowing to the surface. Dragging the edge of the feather through the small pool of blood that had gathered in her palm, she closed her eyes - muttering under her breath in a language unknown by modern man.   
The breeze picked up again, swirling about her legs as the woman stood, waiting for the magic to take her. When it was quiet once more, a large, obsidian raven lifted itself from the ground, banking over the thick copse of trees that flanked either side of the old country road. It took only moments to locate the cause of the disturbance she’d been so curious about. Settling on the thick branch of a nearby oak, the great bird ruffled its feathers as a pair of unnaturally carnelian eyes stared up at her from the pale face of a man on the ground below. A knowing smile crept across his features as he held one arm aloft, offering Madeline a closer vantage point to the carnage sprawled out on the forest floor.   
Leaning forward, sharp talons cut into the branch, flakes of bark falling to land on Gregory’s shoulders as she unfolded her great wings and glided down to land on his outstretched forearm.

Scowling, a growl rumbled from his chest, “watch the suit, woman.” 

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t wear a thousand-dollar suit in the middle of the woods.” Where the large bird had perched moments before, Madeline now stood next to Gregory as if she had been there the entire time. Reaching over to brush the debris from his shoulders, the woman scoffed “and what the Winchesters don’t know won’t hurt them, right?” 

Gregory simply stared at the woman, not bothering to waste his breath on such a ridiculous question.   
Falling into step beside him as Gregory started to move through the trees, Madeline was quiet, the only sounds that of breaking branches beneath their feet.  
Back at the edge of the main road, the tall man slowed to a stop. Raising one of his long-fingered hands, he pinched the bridge of his nose, a deep sigh illustrating his sudden irritation.   
Glancing up at him, Madeline was just about to ask what was wrong but chose to stay silent instead. While she and the static demon got along well enough - their relationship wasn’t one close enough for such discussions. Then again, Madeline was unsure if there was anyone in her life with whom she had such a rapport.

Reaching out, Gregory wrapped cold fingers around the creamy, soft skin of the woman’s wrist.  
“Perhaps you can ask them and find out then, eh?” 

A small tingling spread from behind Madeline’s navel, the sensation expanding out across her stomach before a sharp tug had her scrambling to grab hold of Gregory’s well-tailored suit jacket. Shadows exploded around the pair as they hurtled through the cool autumn air. Swirling around the thick stone support beams of a nearby railway bridge, Gregory would soar several hundred feet, pop back into a somewhat recognizable human form just long enough for Madeline to start to complain before laughing and turning incorporeal once more.   
Several minutes passed before he stopped for the final time, one arm snaking out to snatch the back of Madeline’s simple cotton t-shirt before she could fall into the puddle of what looked to be some mix between oil slicked rainwater and the week-old remnants of some poor saps soured cabbage lunch.  
“God-damnit Gregory, warn me next time, will ya? You know I hate when you do that shit.” Crouching to steady herself on the ground, Madeline took a deep breath and immediately regretted the decision. 

“Yeah, might not want to breathe too deeply here witch, you’re not in the trees anymore.” Chuckling, Gregory stalked past the woman to stand before a run-down tavern, the deep crimson door illuminated by the glow of flickering blue lights. Glancing up at the neon sign above her, Madeline could see that the establishment was called ‘Helga’s Tavern’ - half the bulbs had burnt out so instead of the first word simply read H-E-L, while the t, r, and n of the second word sat dark.

“Hel Avenue? That’s catchy..” Chuckling to herself, Madeline missed the look Gregory shot at her before reaching out to turn the aged-bronze handle set into the splintering wood of the establishment's door.

“C’mon woman, I wouldn’t advise even someone like to you hang out here by yourself any longer than absolutely necessary.”

Following along behind the man as he reached out and yanked open the door, the rust on the hinges screeched in protest at being disturbed but Gregory paid it no mind, stepping forth into a dimly lit bar that smelled of stale cigarettes and sweat combined with cheap beer and desperation. This was the busiest gate to hell, the one where most mortals didn’t even know they were dead yet.   
Madeline couldn’t help but notice that the patrons straddling the worn cushions of the stools pulled up to the bar never even lifted their eyes from their drinks. Even though she’d never been in such a place, the woman knew what she was seeing. 

“Where are we going anyway?” Hurrying to catch up to Gregory as he passed through a second door set into the furthest corner of the room, the hush that surrounded them once it closed was almost jarring. Unlike the dirty, disease-riddled room they’d just left, soft golden light illuminated ornate iron sconces set into the black walls of the hallway where they now stood, the red-tinted glass creating a warm, strangely inviting atmosphere. 

“I’ve got a case to consult on with the Winchesters, my uh….uncle... asked me to assist.” “Normally I would’ve blown him off, but even for me, this particular situation is gruesome. Color me intrigued.”

Still caught up on the idea that Gregory had any sort of family, Madeline was surprised when they came to a stop outside a set of massive wooden doors. Taking a deep breath, the man paused for only a moment before pressing a palm against the door, his long fingers splaying out until they lie flat against the solid barrier. Snarling as if in pain, Gregory removed his hand as the metallic sound of gears shifting allowed the door to fall open. 

The same warm glow met the pair as they crossed the threshold. Immediately, the smell of aged scotch and fire danced through Madeline’s senses, laced with something else she couldn’t quite decipher. Across the room, against what looked to be a bank of dark windows, a massive wooden desk sat gleaming in the firelight. Behind it, a short man in a well-tailored suit sat staring into a crystal tumbler of scotch - the amber liquid clinging to the sides as he twirled it in his grip. Fixing deep-set, lichen-filled eyes on Gregory, a rich, cultured voice rumbled from his chest. “Glad you could make it, even if you are late.”   
The thick accent dripped with derision and the man seemed almost offended that anyone would dare waste his time. 

Tearing her eyes from what looked to be some sort of massive, invisible...beast.on the ground at the man's feet, Madeline shivered, a rare feeling of unease creeping down her spine when the man’s expression shifted from Gregory to her, his green eyes narrowing in scrutiny.

“Don’t be rude now Gregory, who’s your friend?”


	2. Where The Monsters Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the hunt for whatever is causing the grisly murders coming to a stalemate, Madeline and the brothers employ the help of a rather unique individual, a demon that Crowley claims is his nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SERIES WARNINGS: Depictions of gruesome murder, highly detailed gore, nudity, occult references, angst, religious references, drinking, drug use, witchcraft, torture, abuse, filicide, death, brief mentions of incest, smut (eventually, maybe), shape-shifting, loss, grief, blood, nightmares, paranoia, mental illnesses & overall dark/horror based themes.

“Better late than never, Fergus.”

The name drew a snort from the girl that stood next to Gregory, her unease briefly lifted by the unexpectedly funny name. The humour wasn’t shared though and the man that had been addressed stood from the high backed executive chair to stride over, his frame much shorter than Gregory’s though it demanded the same amount of respect. The chill returned to snake down Madeline’s spine and she fought the urge to flinch when Crowley stopped just inches from her face. 

“Crowley. King of Hell. You must be…” He sniffed as if he were a hound following the trail of its prey. “A witch. Not just any witch though.” A calloused finger pinched with his thumb plucked a raven’s feather from the mass of curls that grew from her scalp, a quiet chuckle leaving his throat and his shoulder brushing by the girl to circle around the pair. 

“My name is Madeline. Not ‘witch’ and you’d do well to remember that. Fergus.” She chose to use the name Gregory had used as if to point out her derision at being cast aside as some suburban housewives wiccan. When Crowley plucked the feather from her hair though, she paused and narrowed a peridot gaze. She had no words for his subtle threat and as such, decided to remain quiet.

“Regardless, Gregory, as rude as you are, the boys will be here soon so if you’d like your friend’s secret to remain a secret I’d act with a… modicum of respect if such a thing is even possible for the likes of you.” The disdain that littered Crowley’s eloquent accent was palpable and all Madeline could do was clear her throat and square her posture. The Winchesters knew she was a witch but they weren’t aware that it was a natural magick and not something drawn from a deal with the devil himself. Hers was an ancient power and it was something she would sooner keep hidden and her sidelong glance at lithe male next to her was a begging plea that he respects that decision. 

“Don’t worry, Maddy, your secret is safe with me. After all, who am I to help tweedle dee and his carrot munching giraffe anymore help than I need to? Those two bumbling idiots have died more times than I can keep track of, it’s clear they don’t need more help in finding things that go bump in the night.” 

Silence drew itself over the room for several moments then before a loud and jarring thud rattled the large oak doors in their frame. Another thud followed by the splintering of expensive wood had one of the doors creaking and then falling forward to land on the ornate carpet almost dramatically. This, of course, drew Crowley’s attention from where it had returned to his glass of scotch, the expensive liquor set down on the edge of his desk with a sharp snap of irritation and his stout frame striding forward as the now destroyed door frame was greeted by a tall, sandy-haired male whose green eyes put both Crowley’s and Madeline’s to shame. 

“What in the ever loving FUCK?! Really?! There’s a doorknob for a reason you… DOOR KNOB!” Crowley seemed to be lamenting over the expensive, ruined wood that lay on the floor, his eyes full of a seething hatred that was only met by the taller male’s own like a volatile chemical reaction ready to explode until a taller frame followed through the ruined door. “Really Dean?” This voice was gentle, tired sounding but intelligent. The calm that followed the storm and Madeline squinted at the pair before folding her arms over her chest, watching the hot-headed older of the pair stare down the self-proclaimed King of Hell as if it were just another Sunday evening. 

Seeking to break the tension, she spoke out, leaving Gregory’s side to step over the splintered mess of wood and approach the two men that looked seconds away from either fucking or tearing each other’s faces off. Which of those two were not her concern but she didn’t want to be here for either of them. “Dean and Sam Winchester. Fancy meeting you here.” Her voice carried through the room with a strength that a normal human would never command and when it worked to draw the brother’s attention, she offered them both an impish smirk. 

“Madeline?” This from Sam, the tallest of the pair. 

“The one and only. I followed Gregory here after I found him prancing in the woods complaining about ruining his fancy Gucci suit. I am however surprised that you two bother yourselves with the likes of demons and… angry Scotsman named Fergus.” 

Crowley growled when he heard the name for the third time that evening. “Enough! My name is Crowley, YOU broke my door and YOU! Whoever YOU are, if you are not working with these buffoons then get the fuck out before I feed you to Macy!” Crowley’s voice cracked in his rage and Madeline was forced to take a step back as the energy in the room shifted to something more sinister than before. Crowley’s rage had awoken something that she couldn’t quite put a finger on but the growl from the invisible beast at the edge of the desk distracted her long enough that she didn’t bother to investigate. 

“I have been chasing your lily white ass all over the country Crowley. I’ve tried summoning you, I’ve tried CALLING you and now I’ve found you so if you so much as bitch about your fucking door before you tell me why you’ve lead me on this wild goose chase, I will shove my fist so far up your ass you’ll feel my fingers against your molars.” 

Dean’s voice was gruff as he spoke, stepping over the splintered mess of wood to shove a finger against Crowley’s chest, the hand attached to a muscular, scarred forearm that had seen it’s fair share of fights and trauma; one scar, however, stood out in a particularly wicked fashion and when Madeline saw it she found it almost impossible to look away. 

As if sensing Crowley’s impending doom, Gregory finally moved from his pillar-like stance, slinking across the room like a liquid shadow to stand beside Sam, a pale hand extended in offering. “We meet again, Samantha.” Sam glowered at Gregory but the look of disdain was met with a canary-eating grin, complete with sharpened teeth. Having had his offer of friendship ignored, Gregory shrugged and shoved his hands back into the pockets of his well-tailored suit. “Look, this is amusing and all but Fergus here called me in to…. Consult on something you two dimwits are hunting. Unless you’re hunting him, I’d suggest we get started. My patience is wearing thin and I’m a hell of a lot harder to find than this scotch belching reject.” His words were smooth but cold, the statement quick and to the point and loud enough that it finally broke Dean’s hunter-focus on Crowley’s furrowed brow. 

“Well if it isn’t the literal fucking bogey man. This is who you call in for a consultation Crowley? Really?” Dean sounded annoyed, though that was typical of the man these days. 

“Look Dean-o, I want to be here about as much as you do, probably less, there’s far more appealing prospects literally anywhere else and look at it this way, the sooner you ask your questions, the faster I’m out of your hair and off doing my own thing. Fucking bitches and making money or… whatever it is you humans say.” He waved a hand dismissively before again, shoving it into his pocket. Perhaps the stance was a nervous tick or a well-learned habit. 

“Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on? How we all seem to know the same people except for...Fergus or whatever his name is? I’ve never seen this man in my life but you all seem real fond of him and considering I’ve worked with you for how many years I’m a bit confused as to how he’s just becoming an issue.” Madeline interrupted the banter that had once again begun to grow heated with her own annoyed question, her voice drawing everyone’s attention as it licked through the room like arcing electricity. There was power even in her words and it commanded respect in even the smallest form. 

“Crowley, Madeline. Madeline, Crowley. There, introductions made, I’ll ask you why you’re here later but for now, we’ve got bigger issues. Sammy.” Dean dismissed Madeline as if she were a day old donut that he’d forgotten about and it made her proverbial hackles raise. She had been about to retort when Sam spoke up, clearing his throat and pulling a thick, weathered folder from beneath his arm and moving to drop it on Crowley’s nearby desk. 

“So, get this.” He flipped open the folder and out spilled crime scene photos of gruesome, ritualistic murders that even Gregory winced at. Bodies had been flayed, split open like ripe gourds and sewn back together into unreal visions of monsters. Sigils of an unknown language carved into their brows and their eyes rolled back to expose the milky white of their scleras as if they had died mid-orgasm. There were dozens of photos, all of them belonging to different bodies. There was no preference of gender or age it seemed and Gregory wrinkled his nose when after the photos, a talisman was dropped on top of them. 

Made of dried muscle tissue and human leather, the bones on it belonged to a child, too small to belong to anything else while the hair and teeth were predatory. A wolf, perhaps, or a bear. 

“What am I supposed to be getting Sam, nauseous?” Madeline spoke up, a hand moving to briefly cover her mouth as pine-green eyes flicked over the gruesome pictures. Sam merely shook his head and spread the photos out in a row as if assembling some grotesque puzzle, Gregory moving to lean over and study them more closely. 

“These sigils aren’t demonic or angelic, so at least we’re not dealing with heaven or hell again.” He tried to lighten the mood as he spoke but it didn’t work, if anything, it increased the level of tension. “Okay, I guess that was a bad time for a joke. I need details, where these were found, how long ago, any EMF readings the usual. I need to know why I’m here and why Fergus over there can’t employ some bloodhound demon to hunt down your creepy crawly.” 

“We’ve tried that, we’ve tried hunting them down, luring them out, tricking and trapping. They are untouchable, whatever they are. They know every trick that we know and then some.” Dean spoke before Sam could give Gregory the information he needed and Gregory sighed, his spindly fingers flexing over the desk. “Alright, so how many are dead so far?” 

“Fourteen and counting.” Sam sounded morose, which was fitting given the circumstances. 

“Fourteen, alright, details?” Gregory stood up and rifled through the newspaper clippings that had been included in the folder, ember-like eyes flicking left and right as he looked for anything that stood out. Nothing. 

“There’s no age pattern, no gender pattern, no motive or reason. None of these people knew each other or were in any other way connected. The only thing that remains the same at each crime scene is how brutally they’ve been murdered. There was a video left at one of the houses but even I couldn’t get the data back.” Sam shrugged and hunched his broad shoulders. He was frustrated and tired. They needed a win, if for any reason to keep Dean from losing his mind more than he already had. 

“Cause of death? Any idea? Was it torture? Looks like a few of them have missing hearts. A werewolf with a sick kink?” Gregory shrugged, he was lost without more to look at. 

“Not a werewolf, not a ghoul or a wendigo. Whoever did this tortured these people for days, they killed them slowly and the hearts weren’t torn out, they were cut out, as if they were being harvested for some reason.” Dean spoke now, his voice less on edge though the hardness in his eyes never left. He was on the verge of something dangerous if he didn’t get an answer that suited him. 

Madeline had been silent during the entire discourse, her eyes passing over the photos again and again as if reciting the grotesque poses the bodies were into memory. The physical pike wasn’t there but some of the bodies had been posed as if they had been impaled, others twisted and broken as if trampled by a herd of elk. The sigils carved into their skin wasn’t in a language any man or demon would know, they were archaic, written in the time of archdukes of hell and the first birth of the mortal age. She’d seen them only briefly as a child in tomes thicker than she was, the pages yellow and brittle and the ink a deep rust brown. The memories flashed through her mind and she furrowed her brow; turning to look at Dean. 

“Your monster isn’t a monster. At least not how you or I imagine monsters. I’ve seen this language before when I was a child. I don’t remember where though, it’s fleeting and distant. The talisman though, perhaps I could take it with me to try and remember?” The only place she’d ever seen such gruesome magick was in ancient binding rituals where the humans were bound and tortured until they offered their souls to be freed. After which, they were murdered and their souls ripped from their bodies to serve as wraiths bound by an ancient power. Those souls were often put into different bodies, used to tear through enemies without feeling pain or fear in battle. They were unmatched in strength by all save for the few elite warriors of natural magick. Berserkers and their sorceress kin. It was all stories she’d grown up on, myths and bedtime tales of suspense and magick but everything laid before here was too real to be a story and before she mentioned anything, she had to make sure she wasn’t losing her mind. 

“Wow, way to steal my thunder, Maddykins.” Gregory drawled, his voice snapping her from her thoughts and drawing a glare from the witch. 

“Well, it’s not like you were going to do anything but shuffle around and crack jokes. I might not have answers but I have an idea and it’s better than anything you have shit out.” Gathering the photos back into the thick folder, she snapped it closed and tucked it away under her arm, the talisman gripped tight in her other hand. She hadn’t spoken to him in nearly a century and wondered if he’d even still answer her calling. She shook the thought from her mind and met her eyes first to Dean and then to Sam. “I will call you if I find anything out. Until then, sit tight and go back to the bunker. Leave this alone until I tell you otherwise.” 

Sam and Dean both lifted their brows but when Dean looked to Sam as if to expect an answer, Sam merely shrugged. “It’s the best lead we’ve got Dean, we might as well see if it goes anywhere. We need all the help we can get.” He seemed to be the reasonable one, his arms folding over his broad chest after clapping his brother on the back. 

“Fine, fuck it, whatever. Guess we’ll go sit on our hands while more innocent people get slaughtered like cattle.” Dean didn’t seem happy about the option, but even he had to admit that it was better than running in circles, chasing an impossible foe. “You find anything, you call us, Witch.” Dean snapped out the word as if it were poisonous, though Madeline was used to such derision from the older of the pair. Shaking her head when Sam offered her an apologetic glance, Madeline lifted a hand and waved them away. “We’ll be in touch boys. We always are. Now, Gregory, if you could be so kind as to get me out of here, I would appreciate it.” 

~  
Nearly two weeks later, Madeline had finally managed to muster the power it took to track down the owner of the amulet. They had been well cloaked and nearly impossible to find though when she managed to seek out the small, moss-covered cabin in the dead center of the Massachusetts woods, she had been disappointed to find the door ajar and the stench of sweet rot crawling from the yawning darkness. Flies buzzed around a pile of meat that had once been a body and maggots squirmed over their long uninterrupted feast. Claw marks larger than any bear native to the area had ripped the door off of its hinges but there was no sign of what had killed the owner of the amulet -- their body having been too far dissected to be of much use. 

“Fucking perfect. Back at square one. Gaia that reeks.” She covered her nose and mouth with a hand and glanced around the dimly lit, single room cabin. Herbs of varying sorts hung from the rafters to dry and the walls were lined with shelves that were littered with bones, stones, and tomes of varying sizes and sorts. A typical witch hut if she’d ever seen one. Whoever had lived here wasn’t the murderer she was looking for but they would have been a big help in finding whoever was.  
Running her fingers over the furrowed claw marks, Madeline closed her eyes and pushed what little energy she had left into the ruined wood, seeking out the memories of the small building. Closing her eyes, she swayed on her feet as she was taken through a dreamscape, her fingers twitching and days and nights blurred behind her eyes until they came to an abrupt stop. The memory was so visceral that she could smell the rain that fell beyond the open windows and hear the humming of insects nestled in the trees beyond. 

Glancing around the memory, she took inventory of the hut in its prior state. The shelves were clean and cared for, the floor is swept and the hearth roaring warmly. Off to the side, just out of her field of view she could hear the humming of a female voice, followed by a quiet chant in a language she knew only due to her birthright. Another natural born witch, one just as old, if not older than herself. Unable to turn to look within this memory, she sighed in relief when the view of the female changed as she swayed into the center of the room. She had hair the colour of ivory and eyes to match. Both stood out against burnt cinnamon skin and Madeline was lost for words. She couldn’t be seen of course as this was just the home’s memory but the witch before her held no negative energy and she could only wonder if the amulet had been stolen after her death to mislead any who sought answers. 

The memory was quick to warp and fade soon after, the energy growing dark as Madeline watched the afternoon turn to evening and felt the woman’s coming demise. The memory blurred then and she was forced out of it, stumbling away from the ruined door and tripping over the pile of rotting meat next to it. Landing on her ass with a quiet grunt of pain, Madeline glanced up to see what had jarred her badly enough to rip her from such a deep trance. Nothing was there that she could see and quickly she scrambled forward, undeterred by the gore that squelched between her fingers and soaked through the knees of her jeans. She was woozy from her interrupted magick and unable to find her feet. “Who’s there?!” She called out hopelessly as if whatever had come and gone would step out and introduce itself. 

When nothing showed, she swore and slowly brought herself to her feet, her weight leaning on the broken door frame. In the mud at the entrance of the home was another talisman, her eyes squinting to adjust as she strained to bend down and pick it up. Bear claws and the fur of an elk, woven through with thistle and the branches of an elderberry bush strung together on sinew and deer hide. 

This talisman was far more familiar, and it sent a pang of dread reverberating through her stomach. Pulling out her phone, Madeline sighed in relief when she found she had service if only enough to send a text to the brothers.

**[Mads] Found the owner of the talisman. Was a setup. Nothing left but a rotting corpse and a ruined door. Think it might be old magic. Older than me. Something big and beyond hell or heaven. Find Gregory -- you’ll need his help.**

Sam stared at his phone and re-read the message for the seventh time before he finally shook his head and handed the phone to Dean, who had been impatiently asking what was going on for the past several seconds. Suddenly, the idea of Lucifer breaking out of his cage and freeing Dean of Cain’s ‘gift’ was lower on their list of worries than it had been moments before. Demons and angels they could handle, but archaic magick and ancient creatures of unknown lore? That had even Dean feeling fear, and for once, it was a welcome replacement to the constant anger he felt due to the mark that had infested his arm like an incurable disease. 

“Fucking perfect. Just another day in Paradise, eh Sammy?” 

Dean’s voice cut through the thick silence as he tossed his brother the phone. “Where the hell are we supposed to find Gregory anyway?” It was going to be a long night, and he was going to need a lot of beer to make it through.


	3. Into The Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With little to no information on what they could be hunting, Sam and Dean take to what they know best -- Sam to his books and Dean to the road. Madeline meets up with an old relative and Gregory realizes that whatever they're hunting is now hunting them as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SERIES WARNINGS: Depictions of gruesome murder, highly detailed gore, nudity, occult references, angst, religious references, drinking, drug use, witchcraft, torture, abuse, filicide, death, brief mentions of incest, smut (eventually, maybe), shape-shifting, loss, grief, blood, nightmares, paranoia, mental illnesses & overall dark/horror based themes.

Fingering the uneven strip of leather wound around her left wrist, Madeline glanced down at her own talisman, the single bear claw the sign of her ancestors. Everyone in her family had one, they acted as a sort of calling card if you could call it that. Old-world Europe and the countries of Scandinavia were home to several major clans, each of which had a certain look to their amulets - similar to how the Celts had family crests. You could tell a lot about a person by the talisman they wore - if you knew what to look for.  
As long as Madeline had been alive, she'd yet to fully develop hers; the process of cultivating one known to take decades.

Most people in the modern world thought it was just some edgy charm bracelet if they bothered to say anything at all. Madeline let them think what they would, there was no use trying to explain something as complex as what was essentially her family lineage and traditions passed down through generations to people who couldn't focus on one thing for more than half a minute. Fucking technology bleeding people dry of what little intelligence they used to possess. 

Rising from her squat, Madeline stilled as the fine hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. Curling her fingers into fists, she turned, bracing herself for seeing him - the first time she'd done so in years.  
Madeline was not a short woman, her five-foot, nine inches rather tall for a female in this country.  
Still, when she turned, it was into the broad chest of a man who towered over her by nearly a foot. 

A throaty growl reverberated through the man's body, his lips turning up into a grin. Rather than a smile, it was more a baring of teeth and Madeline couldn't decide if she felt threatened or not.

"What are you doing here Einar?" The words were terse, but not entirely disrespectful, even she had more sense than to assume she'd win if it came down to an argument. Better to proceed with caution…

The man spoke with a heavy accent, but Madeline noted with interest that he responded in English rather than insisting on using their native language.

"Likely the same as you. I assure you, I wouldn't be in this Gods-forsaken country if it weren't entirely necessary."

"I assume you found it?" Einar looked down at Madeline with his pale eyes, the wild mane of hair framing his face and falling to just past his shoulders a striking mix of dark chocolate, silver and a true black.

Nodding, she side-stepped his large frame and sauntered back over to what remained of the woman who'd lived in this cottage. Even this far removed from civilization, it had found her. Though, to be fair - once you were this things' target, there seemed to be no escape. It mattered not how far you ran, or how well you hid or who you knew or what you could do - you couldn't cheat fate the way you could occasionally cheat death.  
The pair walked back across the threshold, searching again through the rubble. Maybe there was something here that she'd missed, Madeline thought to herself. Even if not, perhaps the hulking man next to her could shed some light on the situation.

"Any ideas?" The woman watched as Einar peered closely at a dried substance flaking from the deep furrows of the splintered wood. Rubbing a bit of the charcoal through his fingers, his forehead creased in concern, disbelief clear on his face.  
Rounding on her, Einar wrapped his free hand around Madeline's wrist and with a sharp tug, pulled her from the wreckage. 

"You need to leave. NOW!" Get as far from this place as you can, if these signs point to where I think this world is fucked." 

"You'll know if I find anything else. Tell those humans you love so much goodbye and come home - they don't deserve your loyalty."

With that, Einar turned, disappearing into the woods surrounding them.

For the first time in a while, Madeline was actually, truly afraid. If Einar was concerned enough to bring her home - something bad was on the horizon. 

Still, it didn't feel right to just up and disappear. Sure, she'd sometimes go weeks without speaking to the Winchesters, but they'd saved her hide once or twice - the least she could do was warn them...problem was, she was no closer to having any real answers than she had been yesterday.

*****  
Several thousand miles away, Gregory reclined in one corner of a dingy tavern, the sickly glow of a half expired tallow candle sputtering as a chill gust of wind swirled through the room.  
Leaning forward with a sigh, he stared into the bottom of his empty glass - debating whether he wanted another.  
The low hum of his phone vibrating in the pocket of his blazer distracted him from the stranger who'd just pushed through the crowd, a heavy fur cloak drawn about his shoulders, the oversized hood shielding his features from the patrons gathered around their own tables.

Slipping from his chair, Gregory ducked into the narrow hallway leading to a rickety staircase. The wood groaned under the weight of his polished black shoes as he climbed to the cluster of rooms the establishment offered to road-weary travelers.  
Turning the iron knob and taking care to make no excess noise, Gregory closed himself in the room he'd rented.  
Rented might've been the wrong word, as it insinuated he'd traded money or services for it. But, the wench at the bar apparently had a thing for preternatural patrons. All he'd done was quirk an eyebrow at her, his citrine irises swirling with gold and burnt amber. The tendrils of darkness playing about his feet had slid around her ankle, and climbed her leg, constricting around one of her thighs as she stared, open-mouthed, at his audacity.

In the end, he'd gotten the room he was after. Not that he slept, but having some semblance of privacy away from nosy strangers was welcome as he stewed. So far, he'd found nothing. Not a single hint of the devastation that had ransacked the small village he now stood in. Sure, it had been a few hundred years, but it appeared as if the people of this place had forgotten to include it in their history books. Forgotten...or simply chose to omit it. After all, ignorance was bliss.  
Long fingers wrapping around the phone, he pulled it from his pocket. The screen illuminating his pale features, Gregory flicked through the stack of notifications; ignoring the several missed phone calls from the Winchesters. He'd been just about to respond to Madeline's text when a low rumble shook the floorboards beneath his feet, a shower of dust raining down upon his inky hair.  
Narrowing his eyes, he took a step towards the single window on the far side of the room, the glass stained with years of inattention.  
Flames licked along the frame of the tailoring shop next door, the carved wooden sign hanging by a broken link of rusted chain.  
A group of people sat huddled outside, the wailing of a woman piercing the night as the rumble sounded again, the east wall of the building exploding in a shower of splinters and crashing beams.

“Great, this is just fuckin’ perfect.” Gregory turned and crossed the room in three-wide steps, the door slamming shut behind him as he went to investigate. The humans he could give a shit less about, the reason why the only tailoring shop for miles had just exploded out of thin air was far more interesting.  
*****  
Dean was on his fifth beer, Sam still trying (unsuccessfully) to get a hold of Gregory. Or Madeline. Hell, he’d take Crowley right about now. The witch was known for being aloof and not terribly forthcoming with her information, but if her text had referred them to Gregory, it didn’t bode well for the brothers.  
Along with the text, Madeline had sent a couple of image files - but either she hadn’t had enough data for them to transfer properly, or the wifi in the bunker was being unusually spotty; the files were blank - tiny white text alerting Sam that the files were downloading. Problem was, there had been zero progress in the several hours it had been since he’d first received her message. 

Shoving back from the table, Dean stood - the screeching of the chair against the polished floor alerting Sam. Frowning, concerned, when his brother reached for his jacket and took off towards the garage - Sam followed along behind, a book on ancient beings still clutched in his large hands.

“Did you, uh..-- where ya headed?” 

Dean didn’t stop or turn around but instead threw some back-handed comment over his shoulder about figuring this damned situation out. 

“I’ll be damned if I just sit here and wait for people to bring us information. Sure, Gregory has been helpful. And the girl has her uses too - but I can’t just sit here and wait for the world to implode - AGAIN.” 

“I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

The heavy steel door closing behind the eldest Winchester left Sam in the bunker with nothing but his books and his thoughts - neither of which had helped up until this point.  
Scrubbing his hands across his face, he yawned - dropping the book of lore on the war table, the tea-stained pages falling open to an entry on Berserkers. Sauntering off to his room, Sam had convinced himself that sleep was the answer and perhaps that’s all he needed to gain a fresh perspective. Hell, maybe he’d wake up and this entire situation will have just been a bad dream. 

Problem was, Sam lived his nightmares every day - and he doubted any of that was about to change.

“SWEET HOME ALABAMA BUH DUNNA DUN DUNNA!.... HM HM… HOME TO YOU!” Dean was thumping his hands against Baby’s steering wheel as he sang, his head bobbing as the rain outside slapped against the outside of his beloved car and her tires sending sprays of icy water toward the sidewalk that was abandoned in the storm. Dean had been driving for nearly ten hours now, and while he had no true destination in mind, he had been checking his phone at least once an hour for an update from Sam, or perhaps an answer from Gregory. “Son of a bitch…” Dean swore and tossed his phone in the place where his brother usually sat. He had no idea where he was going or what he was planning to do, but he hated sitting in idle waiting for someone else to solve his problems. Turning down the music now, Dean straightened himself in his seat as he drove and turned off county road that merged onto a highway that was eerily barren of travelers, his granny smith eyes narrowed on the dark stretch of asphalt ahead when a chiming from his phone took his attention away from the road for the briefest of moments. 

**[Good Witch]: Hey, sorry for the disappearing act. I need to go for a while. Back home. Keep out of this and lay low for a while. Something big is coming. Something bad and I think it knows we’re on to it. Take care of yourself, Deano**

Narrowing his eyes, Dean swore and turned his attention back to the inky black stretch ahead of him, his foot heavy on the pedal and a roar sounding from beneath the Impala’s hood. “Lay low. Right. You can lay low, Witch. I’m going to find whatever’s doing this and I’m going to fucking kill--”

SCCCCREEEEEEEECH! CRASH! 

A direct hit from the driver’s side of the Impala sent the vehicle flipping and spinning across the four-lane road and crashing through the guard rail on the other side. Dean’s head cracked off of his window and darkness loomed before his eyes, the last view of light was a pale hand reaching through the window and gripping the front of his jacket. He felt the pressure of being pulled briefly but the pain wracking his body and colours dancing before his vision quickly had Dean losing his state of consciousness. 

**

Two hundred some odd miles away, Sam was nose deep in a book that was very roughly translated from an archaic, long dead language to English. It had been transcribed by the Men of Letters but whoever had done it hadn’t done a very good job of it. “This is nothing but… vague guesses and assumptions.” Sam sighed as he spoke to himself and let the weathered tome slap shut, the smell of aging parchment filling his nostrils as he did. Standing up and stretching from where he’d sat in one of the library’s plush leather chairs; Sam groaned and turned his head from side to side, the satisfactory popping of joints easing the tension in his neck and shoulders slightly, he was getting far too old for all of this shit. Easing his phone from his pocket again, Sam checked the screen and frowned. No missed calls and no new texts, this wasn’t like Dean and it had him worried. 

“Dammit Dean... fuck it, maybe Ro knows something.” While Rowena hadn’t always been on team ‘Free Will 2.0’, after she had died, and then came back she’d adopted a vaguely different tune. While Sam didn’t completely trust her, it was better than relying on Crowley or trying to find Madeline again. If Sam knew Rowena, which he did, he knew that texting her was a moot point and thus opted to call, the phone held to his ear as a ringback tone that sounded like a rusty bagpipe screeched in his ear to the point that he held the phone away slightly. “And here I thought those things went out of style in 2006,” Sam muttered under his breath and sighed in relief when the melodic voice on the other end was more than just a voicemail. 

“Ah, little Sammy, how are you darling?” Rowena’s voice was a purr, though it was far from sensual; if anything she was taunting him, trying to poke the proverbial bear. 

“I’m fine Rowena. I need your help.” Sam knew he wouldn’t live down asking her for help but he’d run out of options since Madeline had stopped answering her phone hours ago after one very vague text about needing to go back home for a while.

“Ooh, is Sammy asking for my help? How delightful, of course, I’d absolutely love to help you. What with after you saved my wee little sausage and slammed the devil back into his box how could I not? What seems to be the problem, petal?” 

Sam could hear the mirth in Rowena’s voice and he wanted nothing more than to hang up on her after offering the witch some very choice words, but as the old word went -- desperate times called for desperate measures, even Bobby -- who had come with them through the veil of the world that Dean not-so-affectionately called the ‘upside down’ -- had agreed to work with the witch on the condition that she stop calling him ‘Bobbykins’.

“Dean left a few days ago to try and track down that freak of nature that Crowley calls his nephew Gregory. I didn’t even know that Crowley had siblings in which to give him a Nephew but that is beside the point. I can’t get a bead on him and Dean stopped answering his phone. We’re up to our waist in deep shit and I’m worried that whatever we’ve been hunting might have found him first.” 

Sam spoke in one large rush of air and when he finished he was greeted by the tinkling sound of Rowena’s ever-amused laughter, her accent lilting and soft. “Ah, I see, so Dean’s on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a few days, is that it, darling?” Rowena knew the words would slap Sam in the face and so she continued before her jab could really sink in. 

“I can scry for him and that beast of a car that he drives. Are you at the bunker? I can be there in ten minutes. Bye, for now, ~” Before Sam could even ask her questions, the line had gone dead and he was left to swear and shove his phone back into his pocket before he grew the urge to throw it across the room. 

“Perfect. Just perfect.” 

**

As the flames licked into the obsidian sky, Gregory stood before the shop, gaze narrowed in suspicious scrutiny, rolling his eyes as a woman near him ran over to claw at his arm, he turned to meet her face and lifted a lip in a mocking snarl. 

“What, woman. What?” 

Startled by the clearly inhuman eyes that had met her own, the woman stumbled and tripped over her words, a tongue dragging nervously over cracked and bleeding lips. Even in the dark Gregory could see that she was filthy, her teeth the colour of tombstones and her eyes sunk into her skull. 

“Please! My child is in there! You have to get him! Can’t you hear him crying?!” 

The fact that Gregory had not picked up on anything other than the crackling fire and exploding support beams even with his keen hearing told him that whoever this woman was, she was lying and all it took was the flashing of his eyes to read the deception that played within her own. 

“You mistake me for one of these humans, and doubly as someone who gives a shit about what’s happening here. This entire town could burn to cinders for all I care. But you, you’re not a human, you’re just hiding in the skin of one. Demons I can deal with but you fae will do all manner of nasty things to get your rocks off, won’t you? Make yourself scarce before I throw you into that burning building you set alight. And here I thought I had a clue.” 

Sighing as the glamoured creature hissed and took off at an odd loping jog, Gregory narrowed his eyes at the rising flames and looked around; the humans that had once stood outside of the building had returned to their homes, the village small enough that the fire wouldn’t leap to another building and the fall season wet enough that the heavy clouds in the sky would open up with rain and douse the combustion before it could cause more harm. Glancing down at where the Fae had gripped the arm of his suit, Gregory was dismayed to find the material charred and blackened, a grip that would have normally seared a human to the bone. 

“Always has to be the suit. Why is it always the fucking suit.” 

Kicking a chunk of burning embers back toward the billowing inferno, Gregory turned and made his way back toward the inn, shadows enveloping him as he walked until he had disappeared from view -- leaving any who had seen the act full of questions that would never be answered.

“AHHHHHHH!” THUD

“Oh… god, my spleen. Why.” 

Gregory landed on the other side of the summoning ring with a painful thud, a bruising ache blooming throughout his lower back and ass. Staring up at where he was, he noticed the intricate devil’s trap carved and gilded into the ceiling. Someone took their demonology very seriously. 

“...Fancy meeting you here, Sam. Ugh… I think you broke my ass.” 

“I’ll be breaking a lot more unless you tell me where my brother is and what your part in this hunt we’re stuck doing is. It’s funny how every time a new body pops up, you’re right there with it.” 

Sam’s baritone voice echoed throughout the hidden holding cell within the bunker, pacing around the large devil’s trap that duplicated the one that had been carved into the ceiling with the help of Madeline’s magic several months ago.

“You think I’m killing all of these lily assed humans for shit and gigs? Really? Oh jesus, that smarts… ah..” Rolling onto one hip, Gregory slowly pulled himself to his feet. He was definitely way too old to be getting yanked around like a yo-yo without consent.

“All I know is it ain’t human and it’s not from my neck of the woods. Fae maybe, something extra fuckin’ spooky, even for your thrill-seeking asses.” Dusting off the tail end of his suit jacket, Gregory sighed and gave up on saving it, pulling the expensive silk-lined piece off and letting it fall to the floor, the sleeves of his black button-down rolled up over his elbows to reveal dark, surreal tattoos that covered every inch of his arms -- Sam was willing to bet that the demon before him was covered completely in ink like that. 

“Alternatively, if you hadn’t ripped me halfway across the globe I probably could have texted you that there’s high supernatural activity even in Ireland where I just was before you -- again, I’ll repeat myself -- ripped me through a portal like a fucking lesser demon!” Gregory rarely raised his voice, but when he did it left an impact; Sam’s hair on the back of his neck standing up and a gut-deep spike of fear causing goosebumps to cover his arms. Gregory’s face had briefly morphed, a fearsome visage having replaced the almost boyishly handsome features he generally had. 

“That being said. Sure, Sam, I’ll try to help you despite your utter lack of respect. But first, why is Rowena wearing a swanky ball gown in your dungeon? I’m not one to judge kinks but… well.” The impish smirk on Gregory’s face earned him a roll of Sam’s eyes, but from the corner, he heard Rowena choke back a small laugh, and that was good enough for him. 

**  
“Wakey wakey…that’s it, good boy.” 

Dean’s eyes rolled and twitched beneath fluttering eyelids and he slowly regained consciousness, a bright light searing into his pupils when he finally opened them completely. “Sonova…” His voice was lacking its usual bravado in exchange for a hoarse, barely-there whisper and his windpipe felt like he had swallowed fire. 

“Ah, the prodigal son returns to the land of the living.” 

Glancing around as panic and anger set in, Dean growled and forced himself to sit up, his joints and muscles screaming at the pain that followed his hasty movement. “Where am I?” This time when he spoke, his words were a bit clearer; the pain in his chest ignored in lieu of glaring angrily out at whatever had been speaking to him. He couldn’t see in the dim lighting of the corridor but the walls were made of packed earth and the musty smell in the air told Dean that he was somewhere deep underground. 

“Where are you? Oh, ah, a cave, of course, or… whatever it is you humans call these things. I would have taken you somewhere more open but the King gets what the King wants. Not sure what he wants with you, though, you’re awfully...pale.” 

From the depths of shadows that strained against the torch-light, a tall creature with a complexion that was obsidian in it’s darkest form allowed himself to be seen. Eyes the colour of violets with the pupils of a serpent shone from the depths of black sockets and in the jumping light of the fire, Dean could see that this creature, whatever it was, had trails of opalescent, oil-slick scales highlighting his face, shoulders, and arms. 

“You a shapeshifter? Never seen one be so ugly, gotta say.” Dean grunted out the insult and finally used the bars in front of him to pull himself to his feet. “Why am I here?” Dean had a sneaking suspicion but he preferred to play dumb in times like these, if for any reason than to rile up his captor. 

“A shape...what? Ugh, you humans are so close-minded. Do I look like some skin-swapping mongrel from up above? No, I do not. You are here because you are very nosy, and his highness does not like it when nosy things stick their ugly little noses into his affairs.” 

“Who are you calling’ ugly pal? You look like a piece of burnt toast and a pile of crap had sex and shit you out.” 

Dean’s insult only served to make the creature laugh; the sound elegant and laced at its edges with a quiet, rasping hiss. 

“You are a feisty one. I am beginning to see why he is so interested in you. In fact, sit tight, I will fetch him so that I can be rid of your fleshy stench.”

Dean watched as the willowy creature slipped back into the darkness, straining to hear and waiting for the sound of its footsteps to fade away completely. 

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Dean grunted and ran his hands over the makeshift cage, a knuckle-rapping against one of the bars, brows shooting up when he realized it was hollow. “Bamboo?” Shaking his head at the idea, Dean lowered himself to the floor and braced his weight with the palms of his hands before lifting both of his legs and striking his boots against the joints of the cage. It took several blows but slowly, the bamboo reeds snapped and splintered under his force. Shoving what he could out of the way, he scrambled to his feet and groaned as the real paint set in and shot its way through his weary legs. No matter how badly his body felt, he forced himself to keep moving, his hands used as a guide to lead him through the bowels of the dark caverns. 

***

Just over four thousand miles away, Madeline shivered and pulled a thick, fur lined hood up and close to her features. The fur smelled of sage and cedar; most likely to hide the stench of the archaic methods of tanning used in the village that she stood in. 

“Well girl, get inside, middle of fuckin’ winter and you’re out there shakin’ like an arctic hare hidin’ from an osprey!” Einar’s voice was deep and booming, a rare lilt of amusement dancing on the edges of his words. “Here, supper.” A heavy thud alerted Madeline to the large wooden bowl that had been set on an equally large table in the center of Einar’s tent. He had the largest in the village, the arcing supports made from the bones of whales and something even larger that had gone black with age. 

“Right, yeah…” Shoving herself away from the entrance of the tent, she let the thick deer hide fall back over the opening and slowly shrugged herself out of the large fur coat that she had been given upon arriving. 

“Everything looks exactly the same, like out of a picture. Gosh, it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve been here.” 

From the other side of the table, Einar snorted and puffed at a carved bone pipe that was clamped firmly between his lips. “You’re barely over a century, girl, blink of an eye. Of course, nothing has changed. Now sit down and eat and we’ll talk about how to save those humans you seem to be so enamored with.” 

Madeline wanted to argue and defend her friendship; she wanted to tell her grandfather that they were hardly friends, let alone something worth being enamored with but she knew if she told him that, their discussion would be off the table. Einar reserved his knowledge for those he thought were worth it, and if he caught air that Sam and Dean were hardly considered her friends, he’d sooner talk about the weather, or ask her when the last time she’d gone hunting for caribou was so with a sigh, she lowered herself into the hand made chair and pulled the bowl of rabbit stew closer to her. It smelled delicious -- she could at least give him that much. 

“So, tell me about how these boys stumbled across something this old and angry?”


End file.
